A Premeditated Reunion
by LadyTP
Summary: A continuation to "A Chance Encounter", where Sansa and Sandor meet unexpectedly in unusual circumstances. Each had though the other long gone from their life - yet this short meeting changed things profoundly for both of them. After leaving her thinking it to be for the best, Sandor comes back for Sansa. (Takes place after DwD)
1. Her Saviour?

**Author's Notes: **This story was brought on only because after I finished "A Chance Encounter", I simply couldn't let go…  
So here we are; the story continues!

**Chapter Summary: **_She extended her hand and touched him, as if wanting the testimony of her own senses that he was real. Sandor stiffened but let her fingers run across his swordbelt and ghost against his chest._

* * *

_**Sandor**_

Three days Sandor had lingered in Maidenpool, trying to find a ship that would take him and Stranger across the sea. None were to be found though – the same storms that prevented new ships from coming into the harbor also prevented the ones already there from leaving. Even the ferry ride across the Bay of Crabs had been rough and choppy and there were no signs of the weather improving.

He had nothing else to do but to go to the docks every morning to ask after ships, then spend the rest of the day trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. The memory of the Saltpans was still too fresh in people's minds for him to show his face openly, hence he avoided places where people gathered and when he couldn't, he wore a cloak and hood over his features.

He drank, but sparingly. He could have wenched, but the experience with the woman at the inn a few days back was still bitter in his mind. _Fuck, that has never happened before! _Fleetingly Sandor wondered if the little bird had cursed him for taking her precious maidenhood. Northerners were known for their magic and who knew what powers the blood of Stark carried? Then he shook his head. If she had magical powers, certainly she would have used them for easing her own lot?

The wench had taken it well and gods be thanked had not dared to laugh. Again Sandor cursed. Not being able to get it up was a sting to his pride but curiously enough he didn't mind that he hadn't finished what he had started. He concluded that he would rather carry the memories of the little bird's lithe body and intoxicating pull a bit longer. For surely, given time, he would get over her and find pleasure with other women again?

Pondering those sombre thoughts he hurried from the docks towards the disreputable inn he lodged in at the outskirts of the town, when he heard a shout behind him.

"Brother!"

Sandor recognised the voice immediately and stopped on his tracks. What the fuck was the Elder Brother doing here? He turned slowly and saw the familiar figure hurrying after him. The old soldier's step was still springy and he crossed the distance between them in no time.

"Brother Sandor, I am surprised to see you here. Were you not supposed to go to the Vale?" The man spoke in low voice, recognising as well as Sandor that his identity had better be kept under wraps.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Sandor responded to his question with a query of his own.

"I am here to buy supplies and sell the products the brothers have made – you know I come here every now and then, don't you?"

"Hmmh," was all Sandor said. It made sense and yet he wondered why they'd run into each other just now.

They had parted on good terms, Sandor having gradually learned to respect the man whom he had initially wanted to strangle with his bare hands, when he had first regained his conscience. He had felt cheated out of death and abhorred the prospect of living the rest of his life as a cripple. Yet the old man had patched him up almost as good as new, and in the process also healed some of the deeper scars of his mind and helped him to find a measure of peace. _Until the little bird stirred it up all over again_, he thought gloomily.

"Share a drink with me and tell me what has transpired since you left us," the Elder Brother smiled at him while his eyes, which missed nothing, took Sandor's measure in that quiet way of his.

* * *

Sandor's story was quickly told over a pint of cheap ale – although not fully. He revealed having met Lady Sansa Stark, most likely on her way to the North. Hearing that, the Elder Brother was quiet for a long time, scrutinising him sharply over his cup so that Sandor started to feel uncomfortable.

"Lady Sansa Stark, you say? The maid who has been searched for high and wide and nobody has been able to locate her?"

"Littlefinger kept her hidden in the Vale, disguised as his bastard daughter," Sandor muttered while downing his drink, hoping for a change in topic. The other man obviously didn't have any intention of doing that, as he continued.

"And you didn't think she might need some help on her way? From what you say it seems that she is intending to return to her home, but alone, with no bannermen, soldiers or _anyone_ helping her?"

"What of it? I never served her or her house, what is it to me?" Sandor didn't want to talk about her – he had had enough of her invading his thoughts lately; no need to bring her into this discussion as well.

The Elder Brother fingered the rim of his cup as if deep in thought and after a while, raised his head.

"Did I ever tell you about those early days when you were delirious with fever and I sat by your bedside for days on end?"

Sandor would rather not have dwelled on those times but the other man had an expression he had learned to recognise to mean that he was going to say what he wanted regardless of Sandor's protestations. It had been the same when the Elder Brother had wanted to talk to him about the rage that churned inside his head. Sandor had resisted for as long as he could, but finally he had given in, opened his soul and to his amazement, eventually found it cleansed by the Elder Brother's persistent attentions.

Sandor sighed deeply. "You clearly have something you want to say, so come on, out with it."

They were sitting in a cheap winesink in the seedy part of town in a room that was almost empty at that time of the day. Nonetheless, they spoke in hushed voices and the Elder Brother leaned towards Sandor across the table when he spoke.

"_Sansa Stark._ That was the name that spilled from your lips when you were lingering between life and death, when nothing but complete honesty in front of the gods guided you. Two names you said, over and over again, your brother's and Sansa Stark's, and her name many times more than Gregor's."

Sandor frowned. He had not been aware of any of this and he felt discomfited by the revelation. Yes, he had thought of her when he had waited for the little wolf-bitch to give him the gift of mercy, but afterwards…? He snorted.

"Ramblings of a dying man, they mean nothing! I am sure I spewed out much and worse."

"I think you know better than that." The Elder Brother leaned back and said nothing further, but it was what he left unsaid that irritated Sandor the most. He hated being forced to face the same battle again, whether to go to the girl or not. He had thought he was done with it.

"We didn't exactly part on friendly terms," he eventually grunted. "Don't think she'd like to have _me_ coming to help her."

The Elder Brother crossed his arms across his chest and reflected his words.

"Did she tell you to leave and never come back?"

"Not in so many words."

"Did she try to turn away from you, did she want to keep her distance?"

"Not really."

"What were her last words to you?"

_'Do it'. She told me to fuck her._ Sandor stayed quiet.

"It seems to me that unless she explicitly told you to go away, or showed in other ways that she wanted to be as far away from you as possible, there is a good chance that she would be grateful for your help. A young maiden all alone in the harsh world – don't you think you owe it to her? From what you babbled on your sickbed you didn't stand up for her when she needed it and you have regretted that ever since."

_Not a maiden anymore. _

"What do _you_ care?" Sandor concluded that attack might be his best defence. The Elder Brother only smiled, a slight furrow on his brow as if he couldn't understand Sandor – as he probably didn't.

"House Stark is not done yet, I believe. The wolves will rise again and maybe they only need a little help. From what I have heard, Lady Sansa is a kind lady, wise and mature, and she could lead her house back to its rightful place. Besides, she has suffered enough. If you should find it in your heart to go back for her, I suspect that it would be a service not only for her but also to the North, to the realm – and to yourself."

They discussed the topic no more and eventually the Elder Brother had to return to his many duties. They said their goodbyes again and Sandor was left to sit at the table as the man whom he respected and valued more than anyone in his whole life walked out of the room.

When left alone, Sandor pondered the exchange. There was no way that he would turn back now, after almost reaching his goal of leaving the cursed Seven Kingdoms behind, no matter what the old man said. He was done with Westeros, done with the game of thrones, done with Sansa Stark.

The next morning he packed his things and steered Stranger onto the road towards the Vale.

* * *

This time Sandor was not riddled with doubts, although he had expected them to assault him as soon as he hit the road. No, he rode on with a firm purpose and nothing could cloud it. Whether it was the Elder Brother's words or that the time that had passed had soothed the sensations roiling inside him, he didn't know nor care. He was going to offer his help to the little bird and if she turned him down – well, it would have been just his time and coin wasted, the lands across the Narrow Sea were not going anywhere. Should she accept… he would pay back what he owed her from his failure to help her in King's Landing - and his more recent transgressions.

Sandor didn't entertain any thoughts about a repeat of the time he had had her on her back. It had been like a dream, a surreal and out-of-place experience on the night when he thought he was going to die, and the little bird – who knew what the fuck she had been thinking? Clearly she hadn't been herself. Such other-worldly experiences could not face the harsh light of the day in the real world.

Finding his way back to the village was easy enough, and instead of waiting and observing, he snatched a young boy sent to water the horses outside the village boundaries and squeezed what he needed to know out of him. The halfman's wife had left several days ago with the convoy of traders and clansmen, the boy spluttered. Luckily for Sandor there was only one path through the mountains to the Neck and he would be able to follow them easily. After promising to come back and strangle the urchin if he told anyone about his visit, Sandor didn't waste time going after the caravan.

The other party travelled slowly, that much he guessed, and indeed, it didn't take many days of fast riding when Sandor heard the trundle of many wagons ahead of him.

* * *

He took his time, scrutinising the convoy and the travellers, observing their strengths, weaknesses, their morale and the way they interacted with each other. He knew Sansa was not their prisoner and in theory was free to go as she pleased – yet he suspected the mountain men were unlikely to hand her freely to him, as he had just humiliated their clan with his escape. No, his best chance was to grab her and sneak away quietly. Yet how to get to her?

To Sandor's relief – although he would have been hard pressed to admit it – the girl seemed to keep her distance from the others. She slept alone in the only tent the group had, and although she seemed to interact mostly with the leader of the Burned Men, a young man who didn't keep hidden _his_ interest in getting to know her better, Sandor didn't detect any excessive familiarity between them. At night, as he lay under his furs a safe distance away from the caravan, he pondered why should he care? He had advised the little bird to take advantage of any armament she had in her possession, and being coinless that didn't leave much. Somehow he suspected that any honours bestowed by House Stark in some foreseeable future would not be adequate reward to these men.

She looked different. On the first evening Sandor stretched out on the ground just outside the rocky outcrop where the travellers had set up their camp and watched her. Gone was the timid girl who had been wary of everything and everyone. That much he had gathered already on the night they had met, but studying her from a distance he saw that something else had changed too.

She looked more confident and surer of herself. An air of authority surrounded her and it showed from the way the others treated her – with respect. _And she looks even more beautiful than before. _Sandor blinked his eyes. Bloody hells, it mattered naught how she looked, not to him.

On the third evening, when he had established the camp routine, he took his chance. He saw Sansa leaving the camp and moving towards a group of boulders a small distance away, presumably to take care of her natural needs. Sandor followed her after making sure that nobody else did – and why would they? They were alone high in the mountains, a large group of able men with strong arms; no harm was able to approach them without ample warning. Or so they thought.

For a moment he wondered whether he should stop her when she first approached, but then pragmatism took over and he concluded that he might as well wait until she was done with her business. Instead of turning his gaze, Sandor watched as Sansa searched for a good spot, hiked her skirts up and squatted behind a large rock. He regretted that the ample skirts prevented him from having a better look, but he had a glimpse of fading bruises on her thighs and felt a pang of guilt.

Even in her current awkward position she looked graceful and her hair flowed freely down her back like a waterfall, still brown but rich and silky. Sandor remembered how it had felt when he had touched it. He pushed that out of his mind and concentrated instead on monitoring the movements of the others in the camp to make sure they wouldn't be interrupted.

Soon Sansa got up and in a moment of gallantry that surprised him, Sandor waited until she was walking back towards the camp before he seized her from behind and covered her mouth with his large hand.

She froze. Before she had time to react otherwise, Sandor whispered in a low voice, "If I lift my hand, will you scream bloody murder or stay quiet?"

They were the same words he had said to her before, he realised a moment too late, cursing how he had already stumbled. He had decided not to bring up what had happened between them, pretending it never had, in order to save her from embarrassment.

The girl didn't seem to mind, though, staying stiff as a plank but not resisting. Sandor could sense her soft body pressed against him and felt his cock stirring. _Bloody hells!_ _So NOW is a good time to wake up? _He stepped back to allow some distance between them but didn't loosen his grip. Sansa turned her head trying to see him. He allowed her, and met eyes that were wide but calm. She nodded her head.

He let her go and she turned fully, but instead of the barrage of questions he expected, she only looked at him, hard.

"Why are you here?" she asked, keeping her tone low even though they were out of earshot.

Sandor was taken aback. "I am here to save you," he murmured, meeting her eyes straight on.

"What if I don't need saving? These men are not my gaolers, they are helping me to reach the North." She was unnaturally calm. If she didn't want his help, if she detested him being here, why didn't she show it?

"Suit yourself. I am not here to _save_ you then – but I am here to offer my services just the same. Take it or leave it, no hair off my arse." Sandor had not expected this cool reaction and was unnerved by it.

She stared at him and although she was much shorter than him, Sandor shrank under those blue eyes. Then she shifted her weight from one foot to another and he realised that she was not quite as composed as she appeared.

"I didn't say that I couldn't use help. What took you so long?"

"You mean I should have come to you on the night of my escape? I happened to be a bit busy then."

"Not then, but after. I thought you wouldn't come at all."

_So she hoped I would come for her._ It made Sandor feel a bit more confident.

"I had things to do. Besides, I wasn't sure if you'd welcome me."

Sansa blushed and Sandor felt he was in charge of the situation once more. Hells, if the only way he could get the upper hand with her was to remind her about that night, he'd use it. Might even jog her memory about who it was who urged him ahead.

"Never mind, I am here now. Do you want to come with me or not? I'll take you to the North or wherever the bloody hell you want, and I'll keep you safe."

She extended her hand and touched him, as if wanting the testimony of her own senses that he was real. Sandor stiffened but let her fingers run across his swordbelt and ghost against his chest. _What is she doing?_ His cock stirred again and he cursed silently. Sansa's lips parted and she stared at him without saying a word. Sandor followed her gaze and saw that it was directed at his throat. Was she still hesitating about if she could trust him?

"I'll keep you safe even from myself, you have my word," he grunted.

Her eyes shot up and she blushed again. "I believe you," she said in a small voice.

Sandor was aware how time was running low; somebody would soon start to wonder if she didn't return.

"You had better go back. I am camped nearby, just Stranger and I. He is strong and can carry us until we can get another horse. Do you have any coin?"

Sansa dropped her hand and took a step back. "I have some coin and jewellery that I can hopefully sell once we get into a village or town."

"Good. Now, go back and behave as though nothing has happened. Tomorrow evening when the camp has quietened, we leave. No argument, no drama, we just leave. If we are far gone by the time they notice, I doubt they'll care."

"Why not leave in the light of day? I am not a prisoner."

"Might be so but I suspect your burned companions wouldn't like the idea of you leaving with _me_. Better to leave without the fuss. Pack all that is yours and just before leaving, tell one of those snotty-nosed servant boys that you left of your own volition so they don't start chasing us."

"How do I find you tomorrow?" She was all prepared and practical but something in her breathless question touched Sandor.

"You don't. I'll find you. Be ready to leave when they quench the fires, and I come for you."

Sandor started to retreat and pushed her forward, not harshly. She took a few steps, stopped and looked at him again.

"Promise?"

"Aye, I promise."

Sandor followed her retreating back and wondered what kind of new hell he had just consigned himself to.

* * *

Their departure the next evening was just as easy as Sandor had predicted. Sansa had packed only the necessities, had dressed warmly and carried a bedroll and warm furs with her. After resting for a few days Stranger was eager to run, and before sunrise they were almost past the last peaks of the mountain chain and started to descend towards the flatlands and the Kingsroad.

They didn't talk much but Sandor felt her presence with every cursed step Stranger took, her breasts pressing against his back, her hair tickling his nose as it flew free in the breeze. She was sitting on top of the bedrolls and furs stacked at the back of the saddle, so high that her chin rested against his back and occasionally against his shoulder when she peered ahead. Sandor could feel her thighs pressing against his flanks and her slender arms seeking purchase first around his chest, and later, when she found that too uncomfortable, around his neck.

They rested for a while in the middle of the day before continuing further, wanting to have as much distance as possible between them and the mountains, just in case. As they made their evening camp, Sandor wondered how she would take to the fact that they had had to leave her tent behind. Sansa didn't seem to mind, setting her bedrolls next to the campfire as if she had done that many times before. Sandor put his own roll a respectable distance away, thus indicating that he was under no illusions about the state of affairs.

They conversed about their situation over the campfire, planning their next steps; where to go and who to approach. It turned out that the little bird was not quite as clueless as he had thought, having heard in Littlefinger's halls about Stannis's stand against the Boltons and the wildlings. Of the latter the details had been a bit sketchy, but the main thing was that many of the great northern houses were occupied again, their lords having returned from the South to lick their wounds in their strongholds.

"I will make sure that your efforts will be duly rewarded when we reach the North," she said, cocking her head and throwing a look in Sandor's direction.

"Hope not. Have no longing to be hanged at the end of the rope for my many sins," he grumbled, incensed by the insinuation that he was helping her for a bloody _reward_. Besides, if he was, he would rather settle on the currency she must have been prepared to pay, on her back. _Fuck! _Sandor shook his head. He really had to stop thinking about it.

As they settled down for the night, he wanted to be sensible and suggest that they at least drag their bedrolls closer together and share their furs in order to preserve warmth. Yet he didn't do that – but whether that was to assure her of his honourable intentions or to save himself a night of agony close to her, he didn't know.


	2. Traveling Companions

**Summary: **_Without stopping to think she pressed her cheek against his, deliberately so, and didn't let go despite Sandor's instinctive shudder and attempt to lean away from her._

* * *

**_Sansa_**

When she felt a strong arm grabbing her from behind and a big hand covering her mouth, Sansa didn't flinch. _It is him. He came back._ Not for a moment did she suspect it to be anyone else.

Her first reaction was relief – no matter how much she had resigned herself to the fact that she needed to survive on her own from now on, she knew it would be much easier with a companion. A companion she could trust. And as odd as it might sound, she trusted the Hound. _Sandor._

His smugness irritated her though. What had taken him so long? If he was going to come back for her, why let her wait and think otherwise? Sansa had a good mind to scold him for that, but then she got caught by his mere presence, the way he loomed over her and made her feel so small. He looked ragged and well-travelled, but not as feral as the last time. Without realising it, she extended her hand and touched him, gaining confidence from the solid strength she could feel in her fingertips even through his padded jerkin.

Sansa's gaze was caught by the spot where she had kissed him – if that's how it could be described; the instinct making her open her mouth and lick the salty taste of him where his beard morphed into the hair on his chest. Knowing how he looked below the collar of his attire made her even more aware of how close he was, and what he was suggesting would mean: the two of them traveling together without the shielding presence of others. No separation between him and her, not even the modicum of privacy she currently enjoyed. Would he assume there would be a repetition of what had taken place? Would he demand his payment in those terms?

Hearing his assurances to the contrary left Sansa with mixed feelings. Her honour – or what was left of it – would be safe. She wouldn't have to endure another experience of him, or any man, on top of her, wouldn't have to feel her womanhood invaded, nor live through the moment when he would shudder, yield, grunt and lose control. What had made him do so, she was curious about – she couldn't see a woman doing such a thing. There had been a few passing moments when she had felt herself to be drifting into the unknown, but they had been fleeting and surely could not be anything as powerful as what he had gone through?

When Sansa rested in her tent that night it was not the prospect of yet another new phase of her journey back to her home that kept her awake, but distracting thoughts of the man with whom she was to share that journey. She traced her fingers across the fading bruises and lifted them higher still, touching her secret place at the top of her smallclothes. She was wet – what did that mean? Tentatively she pressed harder, and when she felt a jolt go through her core she hastily removed her hand, tucked her furs tightly down and clutched the trim of it against her chin.

* * *

"Tell Toki that I left of my own accord, that he is NOT to follow me. I have met with my bannermen and they will take me to the North, but they don't want to get involved with the Mountain Men or the traders. Do you understand?" Sansa shook the confused boy by his shoulders as she whispered into his ear. The boy blinked and slowly comprehension lit his eyes.

"Yes, m'lady, I see," he squeaked.

"Repeat what I said, quietly." Sansa didn't loosen her grip.

"I am to tell Toki that your bannermen have come and taken you away with them, and that you left because you wanted to. And that he is not to follow you," the boy repeated. Sansa smiled at him and brushed his cheek with her hand.

"That is correct. You are a good boy and I'll remember you well. Now, go back to sleep and make sure you pass this message only in the morning, when they start to wonder about me." She pressed a small coin into the boy's palm. "Take this. They may be angry at you for not alerting them earlier, but tell them that I threatened you – or tell them whatever you think may help you. You will have my thanks and this coin all for your own in any case." To sweeten the deal even more she leaned closer and grazed her lips across the boy's forehead, before leaving him where she had found him, under one of the wagons.

She had expected to be riding in front of him, but Sandor plunked her unceremoniously on top of the pile of bedrolls and furs he had tied on the back of his saddle.

"Better you ride on the back, at least until we are out of the mountains. I need my hands to be free in case we run into trouble. Just hold on to me and you'll be fine," he rasped after seeing Sansa's confused expression.

As a matter of fact, it was not bad. Her seating was soft and as long as she held tight to him, she felt secure even though at times when she glanced at the ground it seemed to be frighteningly far, and the notion of tumbling down on the hard ground made her tighten her grip. Sandor's back was wide and solid and fleetingly she wondered why she gained so much confidence from him. Without being able to put it into words, she knew that he wouldn't let her fall.

Sansa wasn't used to riding and having to sit astride, so her legs resting against his sides felt horribly vulgar for her – especially as at times Sandor leaned against them when adjusting to Stranger's gait and unbeknownst to him pressed against her bruises. That reminded her of how she had gained them in the first place – him between her legs, only turned the other way around. Sansa was glad he couldn't see the blush on her face and she buried her face against his back and tried not to think about it.

After a brief rest, which she knew to be more for Stranger's benefit than hers, but which didn't stop her from dozing in the bleak sunlight, they continued on. Whether Sandor had rested she didn't know; he had been awake when she had drifted into sleep and he was awake when she woke up, staring at her with a guarded expression on his face.

They had started to descend the mountains and the path became wider and smoother, and Sansa was eager to see where they were heading. She rested her chin on his broad shoulder on the good side of his face and followed the change in the landscape; from rocky ground to scattered fields growing patchy grass to meadows full of lush greenery.

"Where are we going?" she asked, curiously.

"We are heading towards the Twins, but not going that far. I plan to ride along the Kingsroad further to the North. Depending on how busy the road is, we either ride on it or beside it, in the woods."

His calm response encouraged Sansa so she continued with her questions.

"Where did you go when you left the village? Did you go to the Vale? Did you see Petyr?"

"Not your business, no and no."

Sansa was dismayed. "Timett was sure you were heading there to tell him my whereabouts; that's why we left so urgently. If you didn't go to him, where then?"

Sandor turned his head so that Sansa's nose hit his cheek. "What did _you_ think? That I would run to him in hope of a reward for telling him where his precious little bird had flown?"

Sansa pulled back. "As a matter of fact, if you must know, I didn't think you'd do that. Although it would have made perfect sense. You were on your way to offer him your services, weren't you? What changed your mind? Why didn't you go and tell him about me?" She stared at him and saw him frown.

"Lost my appetite for serving schemers like him. Had enough of it in the service of the Lannisters."

"So _where_ did you go? And why did you come back?"

"Quit your chirping already, little bird. I am here, ain't I? Isn't that enough?"

Chastised, Sansa stayed quiet and pressed her cheek against his back again while sneaking her hands under his armpits for a good hold. However, not being able to see where they were heading was uncomfortable as she wasn't able to anticipate Strangers movements, so after a while she raised her head again and this time placed it on his other side, next to his burns. She felt Sandor stiffen and guessed that he was uncomfortable with her being so close to them, but she decided to ignore it.

As they rode on she stole sideway glances at his wounds. They were so very close, she being practically cheek to cheek to his burned flesh. At this close distance she could observe them dispassionately; the hard rubbery surface, twisted flesh and its undulation under the seared skin. His earlobe was missing but besides that his ear looked normal, just the skin surrounding it being of the same gnarled appearance as the whole side. She could see clearly where his hair didn't grow, despite him having combed his long hair to cover it as usual. On the edges of the bare patch she saw soft white hairs growing, as if unsure whether they had the strength to grow into thick, glossy strands like the rest of his locks.

Somehow the sight of those wispy white hairs touched her heart more than the crude savagery on the rest of his face and for the first time she realised that as horrific a sight as his visage was, it was still the face of a man – only scarred. That he should have held it as a shield between him and the rest of the world, as she had seen and heard him doing, suddenly felt awfully unfair. Without stopping to think she pressed her cheek against his, deliberately so, and didn't let go despite Sandor's instinctive shudder and attempt to lean away from her. No, Sansa only curled her hands around his thick neck, leaned closer and felt his rough skin chafing against her own.

* * *

As the shadows grew longer they finally stopped to make camp. Sandor disappeared into the woods and came back with a stack of firewood and soon they had a roaring fire next to which Sansa gratefully warmed her chilled hands. She had packed some fresh food, cheese and salted meat, and Sandor had some dried bread, so they enjoyed a modest but quite adequate meal.

"Where to next? Which of your bannermen will get the privilege of welcoming House Stark back first?" Sandor's sudden question startled Sansa from the nice drowsiness bestowed by warmth and a half-full belly.

"We might stop at Greywater Watch. Howland Reed was one of my father's closest friends and I am sure he will lend me his help." Sansa had thought of this and had plans ready. The only unknown was where to find House Reed. She had worried about it, whether Toki would have the confidence and patience to wander into the famous swamps of the Neck, which were known to be treacherous. With Sandor she had no such qualms.

"The frogmen, eh? Have heard of them. They are said to have strange magic and their houses float so that one is never sure where to find them. How do you propose we meet them?" Sandor was cleaning his teeth with a twig and spat behind his shoulder, but instead of it repelling Sansa she only took as a sign that he was comfortable in her presence. Not that he would have minded his manners in front of anyone, she mused.

"We don't. We just go there, make noise and wait for them to find us. That's what my father said he had to do, after all the years he had known him and with them being bannermen for House Stark and all. If it worked for him, I'm sure it will work for us."

Sandor regarded her with an interested expression. "You have this all planned out, do you?"

"I hope so. After Greywater Watch, where we are sure to hear the latest news, we can decide which house in the North to go to next. Maybe House Cerwyn, which would be the closest to Winterfell. Maybe somewhere else. But we'll get there. We'll get the Northmen together again. And we'll get Winterfell back."

Sandor leaned against his bedroll, his long legs stretched out in front of him. His mouth was curled into a strange twist and it took a while for Sansa to realise that he was _smiling_.

"'We', eh? So how is it 'we'? Not you and a man who serves you? Your dog. You think your lords will not see fit to send me packing, mayhap with a pat on the back and perchance a juicy bone, but packing nonetheless?"

Sansa's stomach lurched at the thought of him leaving her as soon as they reached the North. Part of her knew that he might be right; the lords would not take kindly to his presence, him being known to most of them only as the rabid Lannister Hound. Why did it hurt her so to think him gone, when only a short time ago she had thought him long dead and buried in an unnamed grave somewhere?

"I will make sure that your efforts are duly rewarded when we reach the North," she said, glancing at him. She was still unsure what drove him. If it was not a monetary reward, and surely not a desire for lands or titles, what was it? Especially if it was not a reward of another kind that he himself had suggested she should be prepared to grant to her champion, but had declined to seek for himself?

"Hope not. Have no longing to be hanged at the end of a rope for my many sins."

"Not as long as I have breath in my body," Sansa said, straightening and meeting his eyes. "Anyone who even dreams of touching you will have to answer to _me_."

Sandor only looked at her, full of mirth. "Aye, I always dreamt of being rescued by a fair maiden."

Huffing, Sansa sank back to her seat. Fine. If he didn't think his chances high, it was up to her to make sure that he could – that he would – stay. Without telling him so.

One more moment of uncertainty passed as she retreated to her bedroll, keeping a close eye on Sandor. He had promised to keep her safe, even from himself. Would he?

He puttered around for a while, added more wood to the fire, made sure there was a pile of more to be added as the night went on, checked that Stranger was securely tied, then settled heavily onto his bedroll a good distance away. He sighed deeply, his broad chest heaving, and threw a glance towards Sansa, who snapped her eyes closed and pretended to be asleep. Then he rolled on his side and soon the only sound she heard was the steady rumble of his breathing.

Sansa stayed awake a bit longer, trying to find a comfortable position on the thin roll, wrapping furs closer to her body. Even though her tent had been thin, it had kept some of the night chills away, and she thought longingly of the warmth of the big man close to her. She knew that should she sneak under his furs, she would be warm and comfortable – yet she couldn't do that. He would surely take it the wrong way, and then…

Sansa's sleep was restless and not only because of the coolness of the night.


	3. The Bath

**Summary: **_The knowledge that Sansa was right there, only a few steps away, gave his cock some ideas of its own, and for a moment he wished she wasn't there – then he could take himself in hand and let some of the pressure dissipate._

* * *

**_Sandor_**

Their days soon settled into a routine consisting of rising early, riding at a steady pace the whole day bar a few breaks to give Stranger and themselves a rest, and evenings and nights in haphazardly erected campsites away from major paths. The food they had was soon consumed but Sandor was prepared and had snares for small game, which he patiently set up each evening and checked in the morning. More often than not he caught a hare or a bird, perfect for their main meal when roasted over flames.

Evenings were initially quiet affairs, but over time some of the connection once felt between the angry man and the frightened young girl, both trapped in their own way in the glittery court, came back. They had changed, but something of the old was still there and gradually they started to talk. Sansa shared more than Sandor, telling him about Sweet-Robin, Petyr's games and his role in Joffrey's death. Sandor only snorted at that, not caring about the fate of the cruel youth his charge had turned into. When he had first been entrusted to Sandor's protection he had been as innocent as all babes are – but that hadn't lasted long.

In turn he told Sansa about the Quiet Isle, although it took a while before he felt comfortable about expressing his thoughts in words. With the exception of the Elder Brother, Sandor's interactions with others had consisted only of the barest necessities, of simple words over concrete matters. There were some things he kept to himself, but he found it surprisingly easy to tell her about his life since they had last met. Even more surprisingly, she seemed to be interested in it.

Sandor also noticed that Sansa started to trust his guidance and often asked his opinion or advice, not only about matters concerning their current journey, but also his views about the North and what she should do next. He found it oddly satisfying to be trusted and gave her measured responses, as much as he could.

Still, Sandor preferred to listen to Sansa. He also liked the look of her, all scruffy and unkempt after weeks on the road. She was dressed in peasant clothes and her auburn hair flowed free, and sometimes Sandor found himself wondering what if she was just that; a peasant wench or a camp follower_._ He had never had a regular woman as so many of his fellow soldiers did, but if he ever entertained such a notion, it would be someone like her – someone who looked him squarely in the eye. Nonetheless, whenever such laughable thoughts came to him, he quickly snuffed them out. He would do exactly as he had promised; deliver her to her home and then disappear from her life. Mayhap to Braavos, mayhap to Pentos.

As they approached the Kingsroad they came across a village, just large enough for an inn to prosper. Sandor wanted to stop only to get some grain for Stranger and food for them and continue straight on. Sansa shyly suggested that they stay for a night to enjoy the luxury of sleeping inside, especially after the rains that had menaced them lately, but Sandor declined, considering it too risky.

"Stay here," he muttered, helping Sansa down from Stranger's back. He didn't want to attract too much attention and hence chose a quiet alley at the back of the stables, not too far away from the inn where he was going to get what they needed.

Sansa nodded, seeking to sit down on an upturned tree trunk resting against the wall, a safe distance away from Stranger and the muddy lane. The horse had started to accept her presence but Sandor still felt better if she kept her distance, especially if he was not there.

* * *

Sandor haggled with the innkeeper about the cost of the goods he wanted, waited for the cook to pack their provisions into large bags, then went to the stables and collected a small sack of grain. Carrying all that he turned his steps back to the place he had left Sansa, pleased about the swiftness of his transactions. They still had a good few hours to get away from there and settle down in a place safe from the curious glances of onlookers.

As he approached the alleyway he heard coarse voices and sounds of a scuffle. Breaking into a light run he hurried ahead, a tight knot squeezing his innards when he thought of what it could mean.

Turning the corner he saw Sansa and two men. He immediately took in the situation; Sansa trying to back away from the men, the younger of them having grasped her arm tightly, the older standing further away and laughing.

"Don't you hurry now, wench, we haven't negotiated the price yet. Much too pretty to let the opportunity pass – I can't remember when I last had such a fine young ass as yours!"

The other man chuckled and held Sansa tighter. She had obviously resisted them as her hair had broken loose from under the modest scarf she had used to cover it, her cheeks were flushed and she was panting. Stranger snorted and pawed his front hoof against the ground, but being tied couldn't do much more.

_Gods!_ Sandor dropped his bundles and hurtled ahead, releasing his sword from his scabbard as he ran. He didn't waste time or the element of surprise by announcing his presence; he charged directly towards the man who was holding Sansa. At the last moment the man saw him coming and pushed Sansa aside, straight into a puddle of mud.

It was not a proper fight; a trained warrior against untrained villagers could have only one outcome, and as soon as the men saw him they recognised the same. A few strokes, one of them gashing the arm of the younger man, and the men were sent running for their lives.

Sandor felt the familiar traces of battle fury rising in him, and he wanted to follow them and kill them for daring to put their filthy hands on Sansa – but that wouldn't have been wise. Besides, Sansa needed him. She was still stranded in the puddle, not moving away even though her assailants were long gone.

Sandor knelt next to her. "Did they hurt you? Tell me."

Sansa's face was contorted and as he examined it trying to find any signs of injury, tears started to flow down her cheeks. She tried to hold them back, he could see from the way she squeezed her eyes shut as if that way she could prevent them, but inevitably they escaped from under her lashes. The trails they left in their wake were clearly visible on her skin, splattered with mud from the impact of her fall.

Sandor didn't know what in hells he should do. She had been strong, enduring their travel much better than he had expected, not complaining with word or gesture, doing what he bid of her and more. She was certainly not a noble maiden expecting to be waited on hand and foot anymore. Yet here she was, crouched in mud and looking dejected and defeated.

"Come on, girl. No harm done. They were just louts who thought they could prey on a lonely maid, but they thought wrong. I saw to that."

Still she didn't move and tears kept on streaming. Clumsily Sandor placed his hand on her shoulder, squeezing it gently. "Can you move? Sitting in mud does no good to anyone."

Whatever control she had had over herself finally seemed to break down and Sansa started sobbing loudly, hunching her shoulders and lifting her equally muddy hands to her face.

"They…they told what they wanted to do with me – that they would take me to the barn and have their way with me… I didn't know if you'd get back here in time… and I am so cold and dirty and hungry and tired and…" Anything she said after that disintegrated into incoherent sobbing as she sniffled and mumbled into her hands, rubbing her face and inadvertently smearing mud all over it, her crying only intensifying.

Sandor looked at her helplessly. _What the fuck am I supposed to do now?_ Finally he gathered her into his arms, lifted her away from the filthy patch and carried her back to the crude seat. Setting her down he knelt in front of her once again, removed her hands from her face and dabbed it with his sleeve – which only covered any yet bare patches of her skin with a brownish hue, the cloth being not much cleaner than her face.

"There, there. It'll be fine. Mayhap we should stay here for the night, get you out of those clothes and into a bath, have you sleep in a proper bed."

At that Sansa stopped her sobbing and lifted her eyes at him. As red-rimmed they were, the hope and trust he saw in them made him flinch.

"Could we? Would that be… safe?"

_Bugger that. _Sandor knew he would feel safer on the road – but on the other hand, they were not being actively searched for as far as he knew, and this was just one shitty village, one shitty inn. It would be unbelievably bad luck if they were caught here and now. He made his decision. The little bird needed this.

He stood up. "We'll stay here. Come with me, I don't plan to let you out of my sight anymore."

Meekly she followed as he untied Stranger, strapped their provisions onto his back and walked him to the stables. A few barked commands to the stable boy saw his horse settled, and then he loaded Sansa and himself with their belongings and they went back to the inn.

The only room available was one of the better ones, and Sandor was bitter over the coin he was forced to pay. Nonetheless, only one glance at Sansa, who stood forlornly by his side, convinced him that it was worth it.

"Bring a bath to the room as soon as possible. And someone to wash the dirty clothes and get them ready by morning. Later we want a warm meal and a flagon – no, two flagons of wine brought to our room." The innkeeper nodded to all his demands and called for servants to execute them.

The room was not large but it had all they needed and more. A fireplace, a small table and two chairs – and a four-poster bed. As two servants came carrying a large wooden vat and maids scurried back and forth carrying buckets of hot water, Sandor eyed their lodgings, wondering how they were going to manage the night.

On their second evening on the road Sansa had dragged her bedroll closer to his and suggested that they could share the covers to keep the cold at bay. It was a perfectly sensible suggestion and one Sandor had wanted to make, but he was glad it was she who brought it up first. Not that it changed much; they might have shared the furs but still slept a good hand-width apart, not touching each other. Yet they shared the same warmth underneath and their nights were better from thereon.

The bed – that was a different proposition altogether. Well, there was always the floor, and space enough in front of the fireplace for him to lie if he only moved the table aside. Sandor deposited their rolls and furs on the floor for the time being and turned back to the proceedings going on around him.

"You'll be as good as new soon, look at all that hot water," he muttered to Sansa in a clumsy attempt to cheer her up. She had regained her composure but from the way she licked her lips and watched the filling of the tub like a hawk, Sandor saw that she could hardly wait until she could sink into it.

In due course the bath was ready and Sandor prepared to leave the room. "Hand me your clothes when you are undressed and I'll make sure the maids have them. And lock the door after that. I'll be downstairs and come back after some time."

Sansa hardly waited for him to leave, so eager she was, starting to unlace her top and pull down her stockings. Sandor hurried out but not before catching a glimpse of a pale calf, an arresting sight indeed.

He waited behind the door and tried not to imagine her undressing behind it; first removing her top, then the skirt, then stockings, then her smallclothes… He had actually never seen her naked and a twisted remorse hit him anew for not taking the opportunity _that_ night. She wouldn't have resisted, he knew. Gods only knew what had made her accept him then – maybe the knowledge that he would be dead soon, maybe something else. Sandor had never entertained the notion that she had wanted him for _his_ sake. He was not that stupid. Mayhap she had used him as a tool for punishing herself – for what, again he was flummoxed by her motives.

He had tried hard not to think about their encounter as they had journeyed, knowing it would only make things more difficult. Yet there were moments when memories came back unbidden, especially when she was so close that he could smell her scent…. Sandor shook his head in anger. _Not again!_

Soon the door opened slightly and a slender hand extended with a tight bundle of clothing in it. He took it, glimpsing through the narrow gap but seeing nothing – she must have been right behind it. The door closed and there was nothing else for Sandor to do but go downstairs to hand the bundle to a maid and drink some sour red to flush the disturbing thoughts out of his head.

* * *

After a time he deemed sufficient Sandor returned to the room. Sansa let him in, dressed in fresh clothes and her long damp tresses coiling behind her back. Her skin was pink from scrubbing and still glowing from heat and she was smiling.

"Thank you so much – I really needed that. Nonetheless I am sorry I behaved so childishly, when nothing actually happened."

"Nevermind that. You deserve this break, I have been driving you hard."

"It is your turn now, the water is still warm and I left enough soap for you. I could take your clothes down and we'll get them washed as well. Who knows when we'll next get the chance?" Sansa pointed at the bath with an expectant look on her face.

"Where would you go? After what just happened I refuse to let you wander on your own. Those men were surely not the only ones noticing a pretty lass like you," Sandor grunted.

"I am sure if I only went downstairs I'd be safe."

"There is no guarantee of that. If some ruffian harassed you, what good would I be sitting in the tub up here? No, that's the end of it, you are not leaving this room unless it's with me."

Sandor placed the flagon on the table and started to remove his cloak, determined to enjoy the privacy of the room he had paid good coin for. When he turned he saw Sansa still standing there, her gaze flickering between him and the tub.

"What if I stayed here – I could get onto the bed and pull the curtains closed to give you privacy? It would be a shame for you to waste the opportunity to bathe, that's all."

Sandor chuckled. "Do I stink that much? Mayhap I do." Then he frowned. "You really think that's so important? I don't care whether you see my hairy arse or not, but would your maidenly sensitivities be offended by staying in the same room with a naked man?"

Sansa blushed, the red of it mixing with her still flushed cheeks. She glanced towards the bed, which indeed had faded curtains hanging from the upper rails. Sandor wondered how much of her blushing was due to his poorly chosen words. _Maidenly sensitivities,_ when she was not a maid anymore and they both knew why.

He considered the suggestion for a moment. It was true that he stank and his clothes would benefit from a good scouring. Besides, it was not _his_ modesty he was worried about – he couldn't care less if she saw him stark naked. Soldiers used to living among troops in camp conditions shed any such notions early on.

Finally he shrugged his shoulders. _Why not?_

"Go on then, get into that bed and pull the curtains. I'll take a plunge to make you happy. I'll take my own clothes to be washed though, just hand me my bag so I can take out new ones."

Wordlessly Sansa handed him his saddle bag from which he fished out his second pair of breeches and a tunic, laying them on a chair close to the tub. Sansa climbed onto the bed and yanked the curtains into place.

"No peeping, then." Sandor called for good measure before pulling his tunic over his head and kicking his boots, breeches and smallclothes in a bungled heap on the floor. He glanced at the bed, especially the seam where the two sides of the curtains closed. It appeared closed enough, but just the thought of her possibly peeking at him from behind it made his skin tingle.

His cock reacted too, stirring and stiffening lightly. _Bloody hells!_ He pressed it against his thigh with one hand while he climbed into the tub and sank under the water.

The water felt bloody good. Sandor submerged himself fully, holding his breath and letting his body soak there for a good while before he got up gasping for air, and reached for the soap and cloth. He washed his body meticulously and in an orderly fashion, starting from his upper body and arms, going down to his thighs and legs, not leaving any place untouched. While cleansing his cock and balls he felt the stirring again. The knowledge that Sansa was right there, only a few steps away, gave his cock some ideas of its own, and for a moment he wished she _wasn't_ there – then he could take himself in hand and let some of the pressure dissipate. In theory he could do it even now, she having indicated that she wouldn't peep, but he knew that he wouldn't be able to do it completely silently. Whether she would recognise the noises was another thing – but then Sandor remembered that she had already heard him release once. That thought did nothing to lessen his arousal and sighing he stroked his shaft fleetingly, just enough to give him a jolt of pleasure. Yes, he knew it was worse that way than ignoring it altogether, but he couldn't help himself.

After scrubbing and rinsing his scalp and hair under the water he was ready. Mischievously he climbed out of the bath, not trying to hide his nudity, not even his half-flaccid member. If she was stealing a look, let her see something! He dried his limbs and hair casually with the piece of cloth left for the purpose, stretched his arms and body and marvelled at how even that short soak in warm water seemed to relax his muscles.

Again he threw a glance towards the bed – and maybe it was just his imagination but he thought he saw the curtain move, just a little. He sneered. Surely Lady Sansa of Winterfell would not deign to bring herself that low?

"I am done, you can come out," he called to her after stepping into his fresh clothes and tying his laces. Sansa appeared, calm and dignified, and that was it, they didn't address the bath anymore.

Sandor took his clothes down, called for servants to empty the tub and take it away, and after all that had been taken care of, their food was brought in. Bowls full of steaming stew peppered with pieces of meat and vegetables, fresh bread and freshly churned butter, cheese and ale and a new flagon of red – life was starting to look pretty good indeed. For good measure he lit the fire in the fireplace. He had paid good coin for the room and hells if he was not going to get his money's worth.

* * *

Food tasted delicious in Sandor's mouth and the wine sweet – even though in reality the stew was greasy and stringy with meat and the wine was piss-poor dregs from the bottom of the barrel. He didn't care. The room was warm, they were safe, the little bird was happy again and chirping as she ate her meal with a good appetite. He decided to enjoy it as long as it lasted, the next day seeing them on the road again.

After the meal Sandor stretched his legs in front of the fire, careful not to get too close.

"I hope we'll get to Greywater Watch soon. Don't care much for defending you against every man in the Neck," he grunted good-naturedly.

"No man dares to approach me if you are around." Sansa was curled on the floor against their rolls, staring into the fire and absentmindedly untangling her hair with her fingers.

"I can't blame them, you know. If I saw a wench like you in a godsforsaken village like this, I too might have a good mind to ask your price."

Sansa threw a scandalised look at him, but seeing his grin held her tongue. Then she got serious.

"I thought I could do it on my own. You know, with hired men, with my bannermen when I find them. I thought my blood would be enough to see me through." She sighed. "What a fool I was."

"Not a fool. Just ignorant of the ways of the world. There is a difference."

"Will you stay with me? Until we get to the North?" Her blue eyes pierced Sandor as she turned her head. Yet if he supposed them to be pleading, or her request to be one of a young maid in need of a rescue, that was not the case. The eyes that held his were clear and full of determination.

Sandor realised then that if he expected to be her knight in shining armour that would never be. No, she might realise that she needed help, but she certainly didn't need a _rescuer_.

"I'll stay as long as you need me," he muttered. "And as long as you pay me," he added as an afterthought.

They were both tired and soon after the meal Sansa went to the bed and climbed into it. Sandor pushed the table aside and unfurled his bedroll on the floor. Sansa saw that but didn't comment and he was happy to let things be.

His belly full of food and wine, the admittedly pleasant feeling of being clean for once, and the warmth and relative safety provided by four walls surrounding them saw him soon drowsing off.

"Sandor?"

_Hells, what again? _Sandorsighed. Sansa was usually not unreasonable with her requests, but what in hells could she still want, at that time of night?

"Aye?"

"Seeing that we have paid for the room with a big bed…and not knowing when we will have a chance again… Would you like to move over here?"

_What the fuck? _Sandor's eyes shot open while he digested her words. She wanted him to come into _her bed?_

"What do you mean, girl? Afraid of sleeping on your own?"

Sansa was silent for a while but he heard her shuffling between the sheets.

"I…just thought you'd enjoy a soft bed as well."

Sandor wondered if she could indeed be that naïve. Inviting a man into her bed _for a soft mattress?_ Especially considering what had already happened between them? He tried to make sense of it but soon gave up. Aye, she had grown up and matured but maybe deep down she was still a naïve young maid, innocent to a fault? He sighed. If that was the case, he'd better let her know the error of her ways.

Sandor got up and made his way in the faint light of the glowing embers. He separated the curtains drawn around the bed and peeked inside, but saw nothing but darkness. Gingerly he placed his knee on the mattress, where it hit her – what part he couldn't be sure of, but she yelped and moved aside soon enough.

"My pardons."

"Here." Sansa patted the mattress on the side where Sandor was entering and from the sounds made her way to the other side.

Sandor sank down and settled on 'his' side. Admittedly, the bed was soft and luxurious and he didn't mind sleeping in it. It was only her proximity that portended a restless night when he had been prepared for a good night's slumber.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.


	4. A Shared Bed

**Author's Notes: **Apologies for a long break between chapters! I have not been exactly _lazy_ – I have been immersed with another writing challenge I will be publishing here when it is fully completed. And oh, yeah, there is work and life as well…

Thank you all for your patience. The plot – as they say – thickens here from now on! And once again my deepest gratitude goes to my wonderful beta Wildsky, who guards me against my horrid abuse of English language!

**_Summary:_**

"Some men don't take well to just sleeping next to a desirable woman. Some men would take action. You should be more careful, that's all I am saying." There was no mistaking it, he had moved even closer. His head hovered just above Sansa's so that there was hardly a finger's breadth separating them. Sansa took a deep breath.

"Are you one of those men?"

"Might be. What if I was?" His voice rumbled so low that Sansa _felt_ it better than she heard it.

_"What of the women who choose to sleep next to dangerous men?" Sansa didn't know where those words came from. _

* * *

_**Sansa**_

Sansa found it surprisingly easy to settle into traveling with the Hound. He evidently knew what he was doing, as he always identified the best route, set up their modest camp quickly and efficiently, found drinking water even in the unlikeliest places and trapped small game to supplement their fast dwindling supplies of preserved food. He kept mostly to himself, although gradually over many evenings he started to respond to Sansa with more than only curt, one sentence replies.

Why was she so interested in hearing him tell about his life since leaving King's Landing? What did it really matter to her, besides the bare bones of his adventures that had been quickly shared? Sansa didn't have an answer to that and in truth she didn't even care to analyse her motivations. Maybe it was just to pass time.

She found herself also sharing more about her own adventures than she had initially intended. Something in her companion's quiet ways, his acceptance of whatever she said without judgment or interference encouraged her. Gods, she could hardly remember the last time somebody had been interested to hear _her_ thoughts! Myranda and Mya, perhaps, but with them she hadn't been able to share her true identity nor her real concerns.

To her surprise she soon discovered that Sandor Clegane was much more astute and knew a good deal more about politics, war and strategies than she had previously given him credit for. Not for nothing had he stood guard to the royal family for years, undoubtedly paying close attention to what he overheard. Furthermore, it was evident that he was in possession of a quick and sharp mind. Dulled by wine and boredom, perhaps, when they had first learned to know one another, but his time at the Quiet Isle seemed to have cleared his head and swept away years of cobwebs and neglect.

Slowly Sansa started to relax in his company, helped by her early and daring suggestion about sharing the furs. It was a necessity due to the cold mountain breezes, but after the first few nights, when she tensed from his every movement, her initial anxiety receded. That he never referred to their intimate encounter was a relief to her. He must have understood that what had taken place had defied all logic and reason and was never to happen again, and for that Sansa was grateful.

Although – maybe there was another reason? Maybe he simply didn't desire her anymore once he'd had his way with her body? What if she had been a disappointment, what if she hadn't been what he had expected, not woman enough, not knowing how to satisfy his manly urges? The thought was so shameful and ridiculous that it shouldn't ever have entered her mind; the most scandalous was the notion of _why_ she was thinking of such things at all.

Nonetheless, sometimes when she tossed on her roll and accidentally brushed against his large frame or when she pressed against his broad chest now that she rode in front of him, strange feelings and sensations assaulted Sansa. She knew them to be base and shameful; only crude reflections of improper desires. Before Myranda she had never imagined women having any such longings, but her friend had opened her eyes and she couldn't force them shut anymore.

Yet this man was in her service, still unpredictable and dangerous, and any familiarity between them was utterly out of the question. She needed his help to get to the North and he had his own reasons. Maybe he didn't want to leave Westeros, maybe he wanted a place in Winterfell. She would help him if he so desired, but her duty was to be strong and look after her heritage - and no man could come between her and that.

* * *

The village and especially the inn were a sweet sight to her sorry eyes and Sansa was thoroughly disappointed when Sandor flatly denied her the pleasure of spending the night with a roof over her head. She swallowed her frustration and settled to wait for him where he pointed her. At least they would get some fresh food. Fresh bread, perhaps, maybe some cheese… Her mouth was salivating when her hungry thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of two men, who diverted their path from wherever they had been going to come to her. Their clothes indicated them as upper class commoners with tunics made of good cloth and shiny metal buckles adorning their cloaks. The younger was blond and had barely started to grow a wispy moustache, whereas the older had a dark, scruffy beard and a big belly. Sansa didn't like his eyes, which roved over her in the most uncouth way.

She observed them warily and gave curt responses to their intruding questions. No, she was not interested. No, she most certainly was not there to ply her trade. She was a respectable woman, waiting for her husband to come back from the stores. The part about the husband came to her quickly – surely it was quite believable for her to be Sandor's wife? She talked in clipped sentences, trying to avoid revealing her nobility through her speech as Sandor had warned her.

None of that was of any help as the young man soon grabbed her, both of them laughing in her face and refusing to believe her story. What husband would leave his wife in such a place alone instead of taking her with him? Surely the duty of a wife was to carry the goods her lord husband bought? If she wasn't offering her services to passing men, why was she wandering in the seedy part of the village?

"Don't worry girl, we are decent men and we pay for our pleasures. You will have your coin after we are through with you," the man with the beard sneered. "There is a barn nearby, no need to go any further. It is empty and as clean as is needed and there we will be safe from prying eyes." He approached Sansa and revealed stained teeth in an expression approximating a wide smile.

"We'll have our way with you whether you will it or not. If you come nicely, you'll have coin at the end of it. If not…" He extended his hand towards Sansa and palmed her breasts through the dress. Sansa started to panic and struggled to get free of the grip, but it was futile. She thrashed and bucked and her heart pounded loudly in her ears. _No, this is not possible, this can't be happening! Where is Sandor?_

Then he dashed to her aid like the knight in shining armour he most resolutely refused to be – and yet he drove her assailants away. Relief as she had never known washed over Sansa and she wept; not only because of the scare, but because she was still so far away from her destination, because she was cold and hungry, because the mud in the puddle into which she had been shoved was soaking through her clothes, because next she had to get up and back onto their cold trail and sleep under the stars again - and everywhere around her there were only people who wanted to harm her, wanted something of her or didn't care a whit about her.

She had tried to be strong and had held any such emotions in check – and yet despite the momentary rush of confidence at the beginning of her journey, in the end she was still all alone in this world, far away from friendly faces and supportive allies.

At the bottom of her misery she felt strong arms around her guiding her to safety and heard a rasping voice promising her a warm bath, a restful sleep, a hot meal… Only when silently waiting behind Sandor as he haggled about the room price did it hit Sansa that as a matter of fact, she was _not_ alone. _He_ was with her. The Hound. Sandor Clegane. The man who had once scared her so much was now her safe haven, keeping everyone who wanted to harm her out.

* * *

The bath was all she had dreamt of and much, much more. Sansa soaked in it, let the hot water flush away the grime and mud, soothe her aching muscles and take her back to a time when she thought hot baths were just a normal part of life, not to be thought much of. She enjoyed it so thoroughly that she didn't even worry about the night's arrangements. Of course she had known that it would be a waste of good coin to ask for two rooms – not to mention the suspicions it might raise for a common man and a woman traveling together to ask for separate rooms.

She had glanced at the bed when they had entered the room and to her relief found it wide and spacious. She had no doubt that Sandor wanted to sleep in it. He had just paid money for the privilege of not having to lie on the hard ground; of course he chose the bed. She only hoped she could share it with him. Yes, she was sure she could. He had told her so. _'…have you sleep in a proper bed'_, he had said.

Besides, they had slept many nights close to each other already. This shouldn't be any different. The thought made her stir, reluctantly. She had better get out and let him have his bath before the water got too cold. Sandor would benefit from it; Sansa shuddered from the thought of him laying down in his tattered travel gear, his forest stench cloaking him. She wasn't being snooty - she understood that cleanliness was the least of their concerns on the road. As a matter of fact, when she leaned against him in the saddle enveloped in his cloak, the whiff of his sweat made her feel odd but in a good way. Instead of it repulsing her she sometimes found herself breathing it in, deliberately. It was the same scent she had first become aware of on that night when…

Splashing energetically to get out of the tub, Sansa cut her trail of thought then and there.

* * *

Sansa would have agreed to anything to make him take a bath – and to be perfectly honest she had felt hesitation about the prospect of going downstairs to the common room all alone after the experience she had just gone through. As embarrassing as it was to be trapped behind the closed curtains when a naked man was bathing right in the same room, it was infinitely better than the alternatives.

As Sansa pulled the shades close, paying special attention to make sure that there were no gaps where they overlapped, she swore to herself that she was going to just sit there patiently until he called to let her know he was done. With that in mind she took a comfortable position, settling down with her knees bent under her body. She could hear the clank of metal when Sandor removed his swordbelt and hung it from a chair post, then thumping sounds when his boots hit the floor and then the rustling of clothes. She tried hard not to pay attention to the sounds or the image of him getting…well, naked.

_That night_…she had not seen much of him at all. Only a sight of his neck and upper chest from the opening of his loose tunic, and once when she had glanced down, she had caught a glimpse of his stomach and groin and his upper thighs. Only as much as was visible from the opening of his breeches, all covered in dark hair. That, and a vague outline of the base of his member before it had disappeared between their joined bodies. Sansa's cheeks burned hot and the familiar sensation between her legs came back to her, the same she had felt on so many nights in the Vale when she had touched herself. Except this time there was a new element, an urgency she couldn't push away no matter how hard she tried. She squirmed on her haunches and hoped that Sandor would be done soon.

It was quiet for a while bar the sloshing of water as he apparently scrubbed himself. Sansa heard him take a deep breath, then sigh. _What is he doing?_ Did he enjoy his bathing as much as she had done?

It seemed to take forever and Sansa's irritation grew. He owed it to her at least to hurry up. Did he perhaps enjoy the situation, deliberately playing with Sansa's 'maidenly sensitivities'? He had grumbled that he didn't mind if she saw his hairy arse; maybe that was what he actually _wanted_ her to see? Sansa's thoughts took a sudden turn. _Was it hairy?_ Everything else about him was, why would his…behind be any different?

Curiosity grew inside her and soon she found herself justifying the actions she was contemplating. She had lain with him, and normally people who slept together saw each other naked. She wouldn't be actually taking any liberties she hadn't been granted already by default. She only had neglected to seize them at the time. So if she took a peek, it wouldn't be as if she was spying on something forbidden?

Even while contemplating these thoughts her eyes scanned the curtains to see whether there was a chance she could have a look without him noticing. Oh, she couldn't endure _that!_ He would let out a snarling chortle and look down his nose at her, and he would surely think most horrible thoughts of her.

Soon Sansa spotted a small tear in the upper part of one of the curtains, so high that she had to stand up on the bed to reach it. The folds of the fabric hid the tear so she hoped he wouldn't see it.

Slowly she positioned her eye over the tear, swallowing nervously but determined to go ahead nonetheless. _It is just a peek. I have already given him my maidenhood, what harm can one look do?_

The view was perfect. She could see the bath tub and Sandor in it. He was resting his back against its side, his knees protruding above the water because the tub was so small. His eyes were closed. Sansa could see his broad chest heaving, it being quite as hairy and muscular as the glimpses she had seen had suggested. After observing him a bit longer she noticed his hand moving slowly under the surface of the water. She couldn't see what he was doing, but his expression and the steady motion of his arm soon left Sansa gulping for air. _He can't! _

She pulled her head back and felt a hot flush travel from her burning cheeks down her neck and chest, then concentrating at the bottom of her belly and between her legs. _Gods! _Almost against her will she pressed her eye to the hole again, daring to face whatever she would see next. Yet all she witnessed was Sandor washing his hair, submerging his head under the water and rubbing his scalp vigorously, then lifting it up again. Water ran across his face and hair and he looked more relaxed than Sansa had ever seen him.

It was strange. Although he looked every bit as powerful and threatening as ever, his thick neck and bulging muscles leaving no doubts about his strength and prowess, something in him at that moment made him look vulnerable. Maybe it was his nakedness? Sansa was transfixed by the sight, her eyes following the curve of his nose and the way his dark hair rested on his shoulders, sleek and glistening.

Then Sandor opened his eyes, swept his hands across his locks and took hold of the sides of the tub. He straightened himself, dwarfing the wooden vessel and making it almost impossible to believe that his long form had just folded itself into it. He was standing with his back to Sansa before stepping out and turning around. _Dear gods!_ Sansa had been prepared to see him fully naked and yet the sight of him felt almost like an assault against her senses. Not in a bad way, he was just so…big. And _hairy_. And completely unabashed, not hurrying to cover his nakedness as normal people did, but stretching his limbs and flexing his muscular arms, only casually wiping the dry cloth across his body.

Sansa wanted to look away – she had had her fill, her curiosity was sated, there was nothing more to see. Yet she couldn't. Her gaze swept down his torso, the distinct curve at his waist and how it swept down from his hip in an angle towards his groin. She couldn't avoid seeing his manhood and although she was sure it was not in readiness for anything untoward, it still looked dangerous laying there thick and heavy against his thigh. For a moment Sansa shivered thinking how it was possible that _that thing_ had ever been inside her.

She saw Sandor looking in the direction of the bed, a slight smirk on his face. Luckily his stare was directed lower, at the seam of the shades and he didn't see her. When he grabbed his smallclothes from the chair and started to pull them on Sansa finally withdrew and very, very carefully settled down again. Her heart was pumping loudly and blood rushed through her veins and she wondered if he would notice anything when she emerged to face him.

Luckily a sufficient amount of time passed for the colour of her face to return to normal before he called her, announcing that he was ready. Calmly Sansa stepped out, pretending that nothing had happened. As she passed him, she couldn't help glancing at his impressive frame for a moment longer than necessary. Suddenly she remembered the way _he_ had looked at her when she had greeted him, her hair still wet and cheeks flushed from the heat of the bath. His gaze had been intense and directed at her body as if he had tried to see through her clothes. She had felt uneasy and turned away – now she wondered if her own scrutiny was as obvious as his had been?

Sansa averted her eyes and stared at the ground while he barked commands to the servants and hoped he hadn't noticed anything.

* * *

The rest of the evening was pleasant and Sansa tried to savour every single moment of it. How things can change, she smiled to herself. The spoiled princess who took hot baths, luxurious dinners, warm rooms and soft beds for granted, now fawning over greasy sludge, a smoking fireplace, a musty room and a lumpy mattress.

In addition, she enjoyed the easy familiarity she shared with Sandor, who once even jested with her. One more time he had come to her rescue and Sansa couldn't help feeling incredibly safe and comfortable having him by her side. Hearing his assurances that he was going to stay with her as long as she wanted him only increased her sense of security. Yes, she still had a long way to go, but she didn't have to do it alone. _He_ would help her.

Sansa was surprised and somewhat discomfited to see Sandor unrolling his bedding on the floor. She couldn't have imagined not wanting to use the opportunity to rest in a real bed, so why didn't he? She didn't say anything though. The night had been far too pleasant for her to want to threaten it with any discord now.

Yet as she lay on her mattress and saw the large space next to her, she couldn't help thinking of the absurdity of the situation.

'Sandor?"

"Aye?"

His voice sounded drowsy and Sansa hoped he hadn't been asleep already, and that he was not angry at the interruption if he had.

"Seeing that we have paid for the room with a big bed…and not knowing when we will have a chance again… Would you like to move over here?"

The only response to her question was silence. Then he rasped, his voice muffled.

"What do you mean, girl? Afraid of sleeping on your own?"

Sansa couldn't exactly admit to that. She felt perfectly safe knowing that he was there, in the room. Yet surely he didn't prefer the floor if he had a choice of a bed? Also – and this she found hard to admit even to herself – she had already gotten used to his closeness at nights. They had settled into a comfortable arrangement characterised by mutual respect and need, and where the past was not spoken of. What harm could there be if he came to lie by her side?

"I…just thought you'd enjoy a soft bed as well."

Nothing happened. After a while Sansa accepted that this man was not like others; he truly didn't care about comforts of the world. Then she heard a deep sigh and the sounds of him getting up and taking uncertain steps towards the bed. Then the curtains were swept aside and in the dim light of the glowing embers she saw his dark form towering above her. Even though she had invited him, for a moment she caught her breath at the intimidating sight. Then she felt him landing his knee on her outstretched leg. Sansa couldn't prevent a gasp and immediately he pulled away.

"My pardons."

"Here." She moved aside and patted the mattress on the side closest to him.

Next she felt him sinking down slowly, the whole bed creaking from the vast weight placed upon it.

* * *

There _shouldn't_ have been any difference between this night and any of the others they had shared, only a small distance between them. They were both dressed, albeit lightly: Sansa in her simple dress and Sandor in only a light tunic and breeches. Yet _everything_ was different.

Sansa tried to ignore it, closing her eyes and willing sleep to take her. Nothing came of it though; her whole existence was focussed on the man beside her, his tossing and turning. They both had bathed and yet his scent was unmistakably his own, the intimacy of it reminding her about their moments together.

Somehow everything she had imagined, experienced or seen of him came together at that moment. Her nights in the Vale, dreaming of the make-believe Hound, kind and gentle. The harshness of the reality when she had faced him for true in the mountains. The brutality of their encounter, peppered with surprisingly tender moments. His return and the gradually growing understanding between them. And finally the sight of him in the bath. Sansa didn't know much of men, that was true, but even she recognised the undeniable masculinity and vitality he exuded. She wished… Sansa wasn't sure what she wished.

"Little bird?"

Sandor's voice was hoarse and Sansa jumped at the sound of it. She had thought to be the only one still lying awake.

"Yes?" She hated how small her voice was, how timid.

"You are a woman grown, not a naive maiden anymore. Surely you know the dangers of inviting a man into your bed?" Sansa felt rather than saw him turning to his side and facing her. He was so close that she could feel the heat emanating from his body.

"What…dangers would they be?" Again, her voice was much too thin and fragile for her liking.

Even as she spoke, Sansa realised that she knew _exactly_ the dangers he was referring to. To her horror, in the span of a few seconds while he contemplated his answer, she also understood that instead of shying away she _embraced_ those dangers. The warm feeling that had flooded her earlier that day still burned high in her. More so, it was not only the sensations of that day, but the gradually built tension that had drawn her more and more towards him for many days, even against her will. It had reached its peak when she had seen him in his glorious nakedness and found him against all expectations so pleasing to her eye.

Her mind whirled – could she really _want_ him to do something scandalous to her? How could she? That would be bold and rash and dishonourable. Still, she couldn't deny the curiosity to know more about the strange rituals between a man and a woman, acts so vulgar and crude when considered in the cool light of the day, but which made grown men do foolish things and women endanger their reputations. She remembered Myranda's excited stories and the look in her eyes when she prepared to sneak into a meeting with her latest lover. She had felt a strange jealousy then, not for any of the men her friend had charmed, but for her obvious delight and enjoyment in those encounters. Sansa had never experienced anything like that and had had a hard time imagining that something so coarse could ever appeal to her.

When she had lost her maidenhood on that mad and unreal night, she hadn't expected anything agreeable from it. On the contrary, she had bitten her lip and prepared to endure the pain she knew to be inevitable, all in a state of defiance. Yet although the experience hadn't been exactly satisfying, it had woken _something_ in her; given her a taste that perhaps, just maybe, with the right man and in the right circumstances, there _could_ be something …

"What dangers? You truly are a little innocent bird still." Sandor's tone was jeering and Sansa felt the slight shake of his chest as he chuckled. He was so close, how had he been able to move so close without her noticing it? The tips of his hair brushed against Sansa's shoulder and she could feel his hot breath.

She knew that surely Sandor was no more the right man for her now than he had been then - but he was good to her, and was her saviour and protector. Even better, he was the only man in the world she could contemplate giving herself to. He had had her already and yet had expressed no desire to rule over her or dominate her and her actions. He was also not a man to boast of his conquests to outsiders, she was sure of it._ Nobody would ever know. _Furthermore, as ashamed as Sansa was as the thought crossed her mind, he was not her equal. Maybe she could enjoy his company as she had heard some noble ladies did with men in their service?

Sansa wasn't proud of those unladylike deliberations. Yet she couldn't deny the practicality of it. She also recognised that the biggest impediment for such liaisons for unmarried maids didn't apply to her anymore. She was not a maiden and hence had nothing to lose. While she was still sorting out those dizzying thoughts, a low murmur from Sandor demanded her attention.

"Some men don't take well to just sleeping next to a desirable woman. Some men would take action. You should be more careful, that's all I am saying." There was no mistaking it, he had moved even closer. His head hovered just above Sansa's so that there was hardly a finger's breadth separating them. Sansa took a deep breath.

"Are you one of those men?"

"Might be. What if I was?" His voice rumbled so low that Sansa _felt_ it better than she heard it.

"What of the women who choose to sleep next to dangerous men?" Sansa didn't know where those words came from. She sensed Sandor stopping his slow descent upon her and pulling away. For a moment she could only hear his breathing, then a sound as he pursed his lips and chortled.

"Well, those women only get what they deserve, I guess."

Even through the shadows she could feel his eyes on her, burning with their intensity.

"Are you one of those women, then?" Again, just a low throaty murmur.

"Might be. What if I was?" Sansa held her breath. The game they played was enticing by itself, making her lightheaded. Such male vigour and naked want, only thinly disguised, made her feel like she was petting a dangerous animal who despite being well fed and subdued in its confinement still retained an element of threat and unpredictability.

Once, when she had been a small girl, she had seen a northern bear kept on a leash, dancing at the instructions of its master. Her father had taken her to it and she had petted it and seen that its teeth had been pulled out, making it harmless. Despite that, she had been wary of its strength and wildness, knowing that a single strike of its gigantic paw would kill any man, woman or a girl, if it decided to attack.

Sandor hadn't had his teeth pulled, and he was every bit as dangerous as any beast in the forest. Sansa closed her eyes and waited. Sandor had stopped, poised for her reaction. Only his uneven breathing heaving his chest broke his otherwise total stillness. Sansa remembered how even that night he had done the same – stopped and waited for her signal. Knowing that calmed her and the momentary fear of losing control she had felt earlier abated.

Surprised by her own daring, Sansa raised her arms and pulled him closer. _Strike me with your paws. _

Sandor resisted only for a second, his head rigid against her grip. Then he gave in and followed her guidance, pressing his lips against her brow, her cheek, traveling to her lips. Just as they met hers he stopped, his breath mingling with hers. His hand had travelled down her side to the curve of her hip and Sansa could feel its heaviness and warmth through her dress, but it, too, stopped. Sansa didn't have to think, didn't have to contemplate.

"I _am_ that woman," she whispered and slid her hand inside his tunic from the hem, meeting the hard planes of his stomach and the soft bristle of the dark hair she had seen earlier. "Please," she added, remembering her courtesies.

Sandor let out a muffled sound between a curse and a sigh and yanked her onto her back, descending upon her with his full body weight.


	5. Dog's Duties

**Author's Notes:** I once again express my gratitude to Wildsky, my patient beta… I know this story is proceeding somewhat slower than I am used to, but *mumble mumble, many reasons…* I thank all of you for your patience!

_**Summary: **"Even as he lay there, his cock buried in the sweet cunt of Sansa Stark and through the haze of his pleasure, he couldn't help wondering what price she demanded of him. Protection? She had it already. For him to fight her battles? That too, she already had. He had no coin nor power nor anything that a high-born lady could need. So what was it that she wanted?"_

* * *

_**Sandor**_

Sandor wanted to give her a lesson, that's all. To teach her that she shouldn't trust anyone, not even himself. That she should be on her guard and not be deceived by the apparent kindness of strangers, _not even himself._ That's how the Lannisters had trapped her in the first place all those years ago, pretending to care about her and luring her to trust them - the despicable lion's spawn! He had tried to tell her that in King's Landing, frustrated beyond measure at seeing her naivety and lack of skill in the game that was played.

He expected her to draw back. Not in horror, as long gone were the days when she had shrunk from the sight of his face. Yet to draw back nonetheless, disgusted by how a man who now overtly encroached on her privacy more than was decent - and who already had defiled her - dared to approach her again. Sandor knew that she regretted what had taken place between them. He could detect it from the way she stiffened when he accidentally touched her, and from the way she averted her eyes when he was too close.

_Let her! _Part of Sandor was amused and enjoyed the sense of power it gave him over her, especially after he had found her so changed. She was a woman grown, matured not only in body but also in mind. Yet sometimes, like earlier that evening when he had seen her relaxed and comfortable in his company, to his chagrin Sandor discovered that he enjoyed that even more. Not many people had ever been at ease in his presence. As odd it had been at first, he had noticed that in those moments he too could let his own facade slip.

The girl surprised him though. Instead of pulling away and telling him with her most regal voice to back away, she challenged him with her question about women who _chose_ to lie next to men like him. And she stayed still, only the rapid rise and fall of her chest giving away her unease. Or was that the reason? Maybe she…

Then she pulled him to her.

_Is this a jest? Is she paying me back with my own coin? _The thought flashed through Sandor's mind before his lips met her heated skin. She didn't resist his touch and he absorbed its softness against his cracked lips, clumsily kissing his way across her face towards the plump lips he had eyed so often when she hadn't noticed. His hand travelled down her body and despite an urge to grab her forcefully, Sandor stopped. _Is she leading me on, only to pull away laughing, knowing that I will not harm her? _He cursed his own softness. Seven hells, had the Quiet Isle made him a pup, taking all the Hound's ferocity away?

And then she uttered the most unthinkable word. _Please._ Sandor's eyes widened at that soft sigh, released from her sweet mouth so close to his that he could practically taste the word in his own. He cursed and yanked Sansa onto her back, her fingers caressing his bare stomach lighting a fire that burned as hot as all seven hells put together.

Gods, it felt good! It was different to that desperate night, when he had longed for the last flash of immortality and ecstasy only a good fuck could give, not caring much about with whom he was about to achieve it. Although if he was totally honest, even then the thought of bedding the unattainable beauty previously so far beyond his reach had spurred him on more than the lust for the act itself.

Now everything was different. Sansa had become a _person_, not an object. Dimly, somewhere at the back of his feverish mind, Sandor also recognised that he was in her service now - and no good would come from fucking this chance up if he wanted to stay in Westeros. He swallowed a dry laugh. _Fucking up, indeed!_

He pressed her down hard, so hard that Sansa had to untangle her hand from the folds of his tunic. As soon as she did it he missed the feel of her fingers on his skin. She didn't resist him but yielded, moulding herself against his form, her arms wrapped around his broad back, her legs trembling under his thighs.

Sandor was an inexperienced kisser, had never cared much about it. Nonetheless he felt that it was expected of him so he nibbled Sansa's lips, brushed his tongue against her lower lip and to his surprise, felt her mouth opening and welcoming him.

She tasted sweet. As much as he felt his cock twitching in his breeches, yearning to experience her tight cunt around it, to his own amazement kissing gave Sandor something he had never thought it could. He wanted more of her, he wanted to get inside her secret recesses and invade her soft body…and this was it. Momentarily forgetting his other needs, Sandor found a new world full of heady delights as he delved deeper, tasting, sucking and drinking her, teasing her tongue with his own.

Eventually he had to pull back, to take in some air if nothing else. He braced himself for her refusal, for Sansa to have realised that she didn't want this after all and that her attempt to act like a woman of the world had backfired on her. He eyed her as she lay there, her hair spread against the pillow and a deep flush suffusing her face and neck. He could see her redness even in the dim light of the room.

"Had enough of danger? Proven to yourself that you can face it?" he growled menacingly. He stopped himself from asking her if he should let her go – if she said yes, he wasn't sure he could; if she said no, he wasn't sure he could do whatever it was that she expected of him. _Fuck!_

"No," she sighed. "Sandor, I want…" She never finished her sentence - she didn't have to. The tone of her voice told Sandor all he needed to know. Who knew how long this would last? Who knew what was going on in that pretty head of hers? It hadn't made any sense to him earlier and even less now, but gods, he was not going to be the one questioning it!

Sandor shifted his body lower, sliding down over hers. His fingers – he cursed silently when he noticed them trembling – tugged at the neckline of her blouse, pulling it down. It occurred to him that now was his chance to get an eyeful of her – all that he had missed that night and regretted ever since.

Pulling up and rolling out of the bed, he hurried to the fireplace and impatiently threw more wood into its glowing mouth. If this was to be his only chance, he wanted to see all of her, not only shadows. He was clumsy in his eagerness, hoping that the break in their contact wouldn't make Sansa regain her senses and put an end to this…whatever this was. He turned back towards the bed and saw her lying where he had left her, her eyes glittering in the firelight as she observed him.

Forcing his steps to be slow and measured, he advanced on the bed and knelt on it as before. Sansa didn't move and Sandor placed himself astride her, putting most of his weight on his bent knees. She felt so small and fragile under him, but she looked him in the eye, her pupils dilated and gaze steady.

Sandor returned to the task at hand and started to unlace the top of her dress. Sansa was dressed in a garment of the common folk consisting of two separate pieces, which allowed a worn top to be replaced with a new one while the skirt was still usable. A mischievous thought crossed his mind.

"Did you have a peek, little bird? Did you spy on me when I bathed? I would have, had our positions been reversed."

Sansa gulped and made as if to turn her head, but then stopped. Something akin to shame crossed her face and she whispered, "If I did, what of it? You already had all I had to give. What was the harm in me just looking?"

The thought of her spying on him made Sandor even harder. It also emboldened him.

"It is only right then that I have a look at you, wouldn't you say? I have seen none of your loveliness, you can hardly call that fair." All the while his fingers worked and finally succeeded in releasing all the knots. Pulling the fabric aside and revealing her bare breasts, Sandor took a deep breath. They were just as beautiful as he had imagined; full and yet not overly so, her nipples standing erect as if inviting him to them… He lowered his head and this time he didn't stop to wait for her go-ahead. Gods, she had had many opportunities to call this off and if she hadn't utilised any of them, he sure as hells wasn't going to ask anymore.

Sandor's mouth found a nipple and latched onto it eagerly, nibbling and sucking it. Sansa shifted and sighed, stretching her arms above her head. A moan escaped her lips.

As focussed as Sandor was on the feel of that hard bud in his mouth, Sansa's satisfied sigh stopped him in his tracks. He understood that to be a sign of her contentment, and instead of that elating him, it raised his dread.

He had never made an effort to satisfy wenches. He had never wanted to hurt them either – he was not the kind of man who gained his satisfaction from the suffering of others, least of all defenceless women making their meagre living by selling their bodies. Still he had always known that they were no more interested in his satisfaction than he was theirs, only wanting to make him come so they could collect their coin and send him on his way. A mutually beneficial arrangement where both parties were looking after their own interests. Making a woman squirm from pleasure under him had never been part of that.

Before his thoughts ran away with him, Sansa opened her eyes and tugged at the hem of his tunic.

"Do you want to…would you like to…take this off?" Without waiting for his answer she rose up and, taking a better grip, started to pull. Sandor raised his arms obediently, helping where she couldn't reach and tossed the garment aside. In return he took the opportunity and teased the remaining fabric down over her shoulders, sliding it away easily and soon her top followed his, landing in a heap on the floor.

Sansa was still sitting up and now pressed her hands on his chest. Giving into her unarticulated but yet unmistakable command more than her force, Sandor soon found himself on his back, Sansa hovering above him.

"May I?"

Her hands swept down his chest, playing with the curls, her knuckles brushing against his nipples. Sandor tried to suppress the shivers travelling up his spine but failed miserably. The feather-light touches crept further down to the leather twines of his breeches and not stopping, swiftly unlaced them.

"May I?"

Sandor had no words and only nodded his silent agreement, observing in wonder how Sansa deftly pulled down his breeches. When they got stuck beneath him, he took charge, removing them in a few deft movements and kicking them away together with his smallclothes. Sandor was now as naked as on his nameday while Sansa still wore her skirts. The situation unnerved him and he wanted nothing more than to take the upper hand again. When he tried, her hand on his chest pressed against him and for reasons he couldn't quite fathom, he stayed down.

"What the hells?" he started but a low shushing sound from her lips stopped his protestations. That, and her fingers touching him softly; sliding down his sides, stopping at the groove of his groin, splaying flat against his abdomen, making him breathe in sharply and clench his stomach. Sandor felt helpless - this was not the way it was supposed to be! Yet he was caught in a trance from which he couldn't break away; nailed to the spot by her bright eyes, darting from his face to his torso to his manhood. Aye, he had been hard as iron from the moment he had first held her, and he could see Sansa's eyes fixed on his hardness, her lips parting and her pink tongue darting between them.

Helplessness such as he had never felt held Sandor in its grip – and yet it didn't terrify him. He was a strong man and had learned to stand up for himself from a young age. Being held down and subjected to the scrutiny and touch of another human being should by all accounts have raised his hackles. Yet knowing that it was _her_, and that she did this of her own accord, raised strange sensations in him. Vulnerability – hells yeah! – and at the same time a feeling of trust that she wouldn't harm him.

Sandor snorted. Of course he knew that whenever he wanted, he could reverse their situation and gain control of the proceedings. Suddenly, as her eyes raked across his prone form, a completely new thought startled him. His body – always capable and honed to battle readiness - had never caused him concerns besides battle injuries. _Before this._

All of a sudden Sandor became conscious of all the welts and scars that criss-crossed his arms and torso, the dark hair that covered his frame like an animal's, his calloused hands and thick neck. Not a pretty sight to a fair maiden, even without the added insult of his hideous face. At least _that_ she had seen every day and had seemingly gotten used to, but the ugliness of the rest of him was all new. And his manhood – thick and swollen, jutting upwards from the thicket of curly hair. Surely an affront to a young maid sheltered from the ugliness of men like him?

Not being able to stay still anymore, Sandor rose onto his elbows and despite her protestations pushed her down instead. She didn't resist too much though, settling on her back and pulling Sandor's head against her chest. He resisted, smirking at her and repeating her own words back to her.

"May I?"

The firm tug at the waistband of her skirt didn't leave doubts as to what he was suggesting, and hearing no objections he pulled it down, gathering her smallclothes along the way.

_Finally! _Sandor feasted his eyes on her; her slender legs and the swell of her hips, the thatch of red hair at the juncture her thighs, the curve of her belly and her breasts. He drank in the sight for a moment, the flicker of firelight dancing on her skin making her (if possible) even more alluring. He heard Sansa whispering something, almost as if to herself. _Strike me with your paws, again_, it sounded, but it didn't make any sense to him.

Sandor leaned down. "What is it, little bird?"

Sansa opened her eyes and Sandor drowned in their depths. She said the same words as she had voiced before in a similar situation.

"Do it." This time her voice was soft, her words encouraging and enticing, lacking the sharpness they had held previously.

Sandor's reaction was different too. Gods, he wanted to fuck her as much as before if not more, but instead of letting himself loose and grabbing the opportunity, he was suddenly paralysed. He wanted to give her pleasure, she deserved it. But how the fuck was he supposed to know how to do that?

Gingerly he placed his hand against Sansa's lower belly, just below her navel. The silken feel of it reminded him of the time after the Greyjoy rebellion when Lord Tywin had rewarded his most accomplished soldiers with a night in the finest brothel in King's Landing. The women there had been clad in silks and velvets, and the one he had chosen had worn a purple shift of the finest and softest material he had ever touched. His hardened fingertips had drawn notches among its threads but still he had marvelled at the sensation. Not for long though, so eager he had been to pull it away to get into her cunt.

Yet that had been then, in his past life. Now he wanted to savour the unusual softness, to let it travel from the tips of his fingers to his head, there to be stored in a secret corner of his mind he would dip into someday when she was gone and he was on his own again.

The sight of his broad hand, covered with coarse hair up to his first knuckles, against her pale skin was brutal and sacrilegious. It was also oddly fascinating, especially when he sensed the subtle quiver of her belly under it and saw the heaving rise and fall of her chest as she exhaled. Time stood still.

Slowly, very slowly he explored the landscape of her body, feeling like an explorer of faraway uncharted lands. Mayhap he was. Supple breasts with firm pink buds. Collarbones so fine and fragile he could have snapped them like twigs if he wanted. Round shoulders, the shell of an ear, a graceful jaw line. All the time Sansa's eyes followed his face, big and blue and guileless.

A tentative lick at her nipple was met with a reaction that seemed disproportionate to the act; Sansa arched her back and let out a whimpering noise. Encouraged by it Sandor licked it again - and again and again. His teeth grazed the hard bud and a new jolt ran through Sansa. Sandor felt something building inside him, the uncertainty giving way to raw unbridled desire. Abruptly he wanted more; more of everything. More of her skin, her taste, her breasts, her belly, what she was hiding between her long legs that he hadn't even dared to touch.

_Seven save me!_ Kneading her breasts with both hands, he slid further down, leaving a wet trail from his tongue across her ribs and stomach and lower belly, all the way to her soft curls. Sandor stopped only to pull her legs apart, overcoming her weak resistance. It was clearly more an instinctive reaction on her part than a real refusal, judging by the eagerness with which she soon cleaved to him.

Sandor had never tasted anything like her cunt; sweet and musky and intoxicating. He got drunk off it, and from the reactions he elicited in her. As he slid his tongue along her folds - pink and slightly wrinkled and opening under his onslaught like the petals of a glorious flower in bloom - Sansa's whimpers grew louder and louder and her hands grabbed his head and tugged his hair almost painfully at times. He was drunk on the sensation that she was reacting like that because of _him_ - that he was the man who could make her sing like that. _Sing for me. _

The thought made him absurdly proud and at the back of his mind Sandor heard the echoes of his own words from the past. _One day I'll have a song from you, whether you will it or no. _When he had said that, he hadn't truly expected that such a day would ever come. And yet here he was, having found an especially tender spot above her opening, a small knot which nibbling and sucking made her chime the most arousing notes - for his ears only. Every sigh and every moan was a new badge of honour for him.

For the next good while Sandor lost himself between Sansa's slender thighs, all his attention on her making him nearly forget his own needs. _Nearly._ The building pressure in his cock and balls called for release and almost reluctantly he eventually pulled his mouth away from his feast and knelt between her legs. Sansa had turned her cheek against the pillow and had covered her eyes with her arm - earlier he had seen her tossing her head from side to side, her hands alternately gripping his hair or flailing aimlessly in the air as if she hadn't known what to do with them.

Realising that Sandor had moved away she gasped loudly, then turned her head in his direction and lifted the arm covering it. Gods, if she wasn't the most beautiful thing he had ever seen! Messy hair, burning cheeks, skin glowing in the firelight, half-lidded eyes gazing at him dazedly.

"Little bird," Sandor growled low in his throat. "Are you ready for me?"

Sansa bit her lower lip and to Sandor's amazement, smiled. Not a polite demure smile - the situation hardly warranted it - but a flashing, brilliant smile revealing her teeth and melting away years of discipline and restraint in one glorious second.

She shimmied on top of the mattress to a better position and reached towards him, taking a surprisingly firm grip on his hips.

"Never been more ready," she whispered, and if Sandor hadn't known better, he could have sworn she was grinning.

Grabbing her almost roughly by the waist, Sandor positioned her right under him, nudged the knees she had instinctively closed apart again and shifted until he could feel the tip of his manhood right at her entrance. A slight nudge and almost without guidance, helped by her slickness, he found his way in.

There was something perverse in the way Sandor fought against his instincts to ram his cock all the way in - how he stopped after having entered only a small distance. There was no maiden's veil hampering him this time, and true to her word, Sansa was ready and willing and recklessly pushed her hips against him. No, this was all his own doing, the agonisingly slow thrust, absorbing each and every sensation of the journey of his cock pushing through her tightness. And that she was, tight as a glove, but her walls gave in as he entered and the pressure squeezing his member was so intense that for a moment he was afraid of losing it right then and there.

Sandor closed his eyes. All this was disturbingly new to him. If their last coupling had been Sansa's first, now it seemed like this was _his._ Aye, he had fucked many women - he had no idea how many but he hadn't exactly been chaste. He could have fucked many more had he been so inclined, but after the novelty of the act had worn off in his youth he had realised that it was a bodily act just like pissing and shitting - except it was not as necessary. The relief it had given had always been temporary and more often than not he had settled for his own hand rather than endure the ignominy of finding a whore. Or even worse, going with one of the misguided wenches who after his rapid rise to the position of the prince's - later the king's - trusted man, had tried to entice him without expectation of coin. However, he knew those women better. If not coin, they expected something else - and he had never been ready to provide it, whatever it was.

Even as he lay there, his cock buried in the sweet cunt of Sansa Stark and through the haze of his pleasure, he couldn't help wondering what price she demanded of him. Protection? She had it already. For him to fight her battles? That too, she already had. He had no coin nor power nor anything that a high-born lady could need. So what was it that she wanted?

All his doubts were momentarily swept away as he finally reached the limit of the push, his balls pressing against her cheeks. As blood rushed in his ears and little rivulets of sweat beaded on his brow and made their way to sting him in the eyes, he gradually started to increase his tempo. Inevitably, soon it was as if the floodgates had opened and he let go of all his restraint, thrusting in and out with abandon, grabbing her hips with both hands, grunting at his every jerky movement. Sansa responded keenly to his guidance and soon they reached a steady rhythm, the timeless dance of lust and pleasure. It felt _fucking amazing_, the pressure mounting along his hard length and the bliss radiating along his groin, his spine, his whole body. Sandor groaned, hissed and ground his teeth together, fleetingly lost to everything but his quest to thrust deeper, harder and more forcefully into her slickness. Sansa didn't hold back either; gone was the shy maid, lost the haughty noblewoman, replaced by the wanton wench who begged for more. As it happened, Sandor was more than happy to give it to her. _Fuck the price!_

He panted and his growls joined Sansa's delicious little cries of pleasure and much too soon he hit another limit, the point of no return - beyond even the iron-clad control he usually exerted over his own reactions. As he felt his balls tightening and the inevitable release approaching, there was nothing he wanted more than to shoot his load inside her. Yet his sensible side won as getting her pregnant would have been beyond stupid. Pulling away and stroking his shaft to finish off, his climax was more powerful than he could ever remember experiencing. With a grunt and a sob he spilled his seed on top of Sansa's soft belly, every last drop squeezed out in agonisingly slow waves of convulsion travelling the length of his cock. The feel of the warm stickiness between their bodies gave him an additional sense of satisfaction. If not _in_ her, at least _on_ her.

As the last shudders of his peak subsided, Sandor fell down on top of Sansa, yet he was careful not to crush her under his bulk.

Her hands travelled up and down his back, their restlessness in stark contrast with his own dazedness. That she continued touching him - whether she was aware of it or not - was yet one more novel experience to Sandor. He absorbed those caresses, which were not butterfly soft anymore but raking him, the reason for which he did not at first comprehend. Instead of Sansa pulling herself away, or pushing him away as he was used to, she continued to squirm and sigh, her hips bucking against his groin and already softening member.

Finally Sandor realised that although he had found his release, the little bird might not have. What little he had heard of those matters, women apparently needed more attention to come. What could it be? he lazily wondered. It was not as if they had cocks to stroke.

Then he remembered the little bud near her cunt that had given her so much pleasure when he had nibbled at it. Again he surprised himself by rolling to her side and reaching down to touch it again. That she wanted him to was obvious from the moment his hand landed between her thighs; she whimpered and pushed herself forcefully against it. Sandor found that firm bud soon enough, and the combined wetness of her cunt and his seed helped him to establish a steady, fluid motion around it with his thumb. Sansa's teats bounced as she writhed under his onslaught and he latched onto them again, sucking and biting, careful not to maul her too hard.

"Tell me what to do," he mumbled against her breast. "Whatever it is, I'll do it. I don't know how to please you but by gods I will if you just show me how."

"Just...continue...don't stop..." Sansa's voice was muffled and tense.

"Is it there where you touch yourself?" he murmured, blowing a breath of air against her nipple, the thought bringing an almost unbearable flash of images into his mind. The little bird, all alone in her room, stroking her cunt...and now he could do that for her.

Applying his earlier reasoning about cocks and buds, Sandor continued his steady rhythm, stroking it at an increasing pace and never stopping, until he could see Sansa arch her back once more, higher than ever before, taking in a deep shuddering breath and then freezing completely. Some strange instinct made Sandor thrust two of his fingers inside her at that very moment and he was rewarded by a high-pitched wail and the feel of her cunt contracting around them, over and over again.

_All the seven devils in all the seven hells! _The excitement of seeing her so unravelled almost competed with his own. _Fuck, I never knew!_

If Sansa had been beautiful before just lying naked against the covers, the way she looked now was beyond this world, Sandor thought. A fine sheen of sweat covering her body glistening faintly, her thighs were still trembling in the aftermath of her climax, her shoulders had pulled back and were pushing her breasts higher, and her arms raised above her head, framing her flushed face and silken hair like a fine portrait... Her eyes were tightly squeezed shut, but even as Sandor scrutinised her she opened them and without missing a beat, speared him with her gaze.

The naked need he had seen in them earlier was gone, replaced with solemnity and peace. Sandor felt an urge to look away. The honesty he saw in them was, if possible, even more intimate than what they had just done and he felt like an intruder in her world. Yet he fixed his eyes with hers and kept them locked with a determination he knew was only a front. Inside he was unsure and hesitant, both being feelings he hadn't associated with himself since...never.

Then Sansa sighed and the moment passed. As if suddenly realising how wanton her pose was she pulled the corner of the sheet up for her cover, but at the same time turned onto her side and burrowed her face against Sandor's chest. A little shifting and arranging of her long legs, some squirming as she tried to find where to put her hands and her head, all the while Sandor lay still and allowed her to find her position and move him this way or that. He was in awe that it was what she wanted to do. To snuggle closer to him, not further away.

As she finally stilled, she took a deep breath and sleepily hummed against his skin, "That was not so dangerous after all, was it?"

While Sandor's stunned mind was still trying to find a suitable riposte, her breathing slowed down to a steady pace indicating that she was asleep. Sandor was left to stare at the canopy of the bed, trying to understand what had just happened and why - all the while knowing that none of it _did_ make any sense.

* * *

Something was not quite right. Sandor's usual alertness had deserted him; the instinct of a man who had been woken up too many times by a kick in the shin or worse, by a barked command from an angry commander, or by the nausea and head pain caused by too much drink. Neither was this morning marked by a rustle of leaves, softly falling drops of an early morning rain nor a chill rising up from the cold ground.

No, when he came to, he felt a soft mattress under his frame and something warm and supple against his side. Fine wisps of hair tickled his throat and a weight that was hardly noticeable pressed against his chest. Slowly, very slowly he opened his eyes only to catch a sight of an auburn-brown cascade flowing under his chin and sensing _Sansa bloody Stark's _curvy body moulded against his own.

_Fucking hells!_ Sandor closed his eyes again and hissed silently. The images of the previous night flooded through his mind; her slim figure, her tightly scrunched eyes and contorted face as she let herself go – had she really climaxed in his arms? He had heard of women releasing as men did – in their own way – but he had never seen it and to be honest, had thought that to be only an idle boast by useless wankers who thought their dicks to be some fucking magical wands.

And he remembered her smell. And her taste.

Sandor wanted to linger longer in those memories, but the practical, cool side of his mind demanded his attention be focussed on other things. From the angle of the sunlight streaming through the dirty window he assessed the morning to be well advanced. If they wanted to move along as quickly as planned, they had already wasted enough precious time.

Sandor glanced at Sansa again. Her head rested in the crook of his arm and by lifting his head very carefully he could observe her without waking her up. In the relaxed state of sleep she looked young and vulnerable – almost like the girl-child he had first encountered in Winterfell. Her mouth was slightly ajar and as Sandor studied her face, her eyelashes fluttered as she chased after a dream. The days riding outdoors had woken dormant freckles on her skin and there was something utterly fascinating that Sandor couldn't explain in those tiny red-brown spots. He knew that ladies of the court used all kinds of remedies to bleach their skin and rid themselves of blemishes like that – but for the death of him he couldn't understand why.

Sandor shifted, pondering if he should wake her up. Maybe lower his hand - already wrapped around her shoulder, his fingers resting temptingly close to her side only a small distance away from the curve of her bare breast…

_Fuck!_ His lady had been a bit tipsy, having shared two flagons of wine with him – although admittedly he had taken the lion's share of both. Had she been simply drunk and hence initiated something even the full force of Mad King Aerys's noble Kingsguard couldn't have stopped? What if she woke up now and realised her folly? Would she shimmy away from him, politely as ever, but press that sweet mouth of hers into a thin line and refuse to meet his eyes?

Sandor swallowed, although his dry throat made it only an empty gesture. Suddenly the thought of seeing the unabashed and wild woman, who had thrashed in his arms, as a disciplined noble lady again tasted like ash in his mouth. She _had_ hardened, that much had been clear from their very first meeting in the mountains. Maybe even as much as to take her privileges – and her pleasures – as she saw fit. She had yielded to him twice – no, there Sandor had to stop and consider. No, she hadn't _yielded_ to him, she had _commanded_ him.

Suddenly the slender arms resting on his chest and down his side felt suffocating. Sandor moved carefully, lifting Sansa's arms and head to rest against the hastily scooped pillows and covers, and to his relief her breathing continued as steady and deep as before, indicating her slumber. He shuffled to the edge of the bed and slid down.

* * *

Sandor had already checked on Stranger, collected fresh supplies of food and packed it all into the saddle bags, and was sitting in the common room gulping down a serving of hot cakes when Sansa came down. She had dressed in her travelling gear and her hair – so free and dishevelled during the night – was neatly combed and bound in a tight coil.

"Finally figured that the inn is not travelling to where we are going?" Sandor's dry words were met with a silence. Weakly Sansa called for the serving maid for some food. Sandor tried to assess her condition as she sat there, staring at the table. The last thing he needed was her vomiting all over him and Stranger, but she seemed fit enough. Not even the greasy stench of bacon, brought steaming hot to the table, raised a reaction in her.

Nor did she react to _him._ No smile, no recognition that the previous night had been any different from the many they had shared.

Sandor finished earlier and waited for Sansa in front of the inn. He swept his gaze across the yard, wary of anyone who might stare at them for too long or of the men who had tried to take Sansa the previous day. To his satisfaction everything was peaceful; only a few scrawny dogs chasing each other, a stable hand carting a pile of hay to the stables, a serving wench scurrying from the other side of the square back into the inn. She glanced furtively at Sandor as she passed and he recognised her as one of those who had helped them with the bath the previous evening and served them breakfast in the morning. He didn't care - he was used to wenches gawking at his appearance and hastening away from him.

Finally Sansa emerged. Staring at her approach, he tried to figure out what he had expected – if anything. A smile? A bloody kiss? An expression of horror? Regret? She gave nothing away, behaving as if their heated embraces had never happened. As if her cunt had not clenched around his cock. As if he hadn't stuck his tongue into the deep recesses of her womanhood. As if…

Sandor shook himself violently, squaring his broad shoulders and forcing his mind away from the dangerous track. Broodingly he helped Sansa into the saddle in front of him and guided Stranger away from the muddy yard, towards the woods.

* * *

Outwardly there was nothing different in that day to many before. Just steady riding, a few decisions made about which route to take, obligatory scouting whenever the road forked to see what was ahead. The midday break for respite and a bite. Sandor got increasingly agitated as the day wore on and the monotony of the path lulled him into a state of boredom.

Aye, his lady's curvy ass so temptingly close to his groin had been a concern before. It had been manageable though. Whatever madness had taken place in the mountains had been just that, _madness_, and it was not as if he hadn't ever had to contain his desires before. As he had risen higher in the king's service, he had not been as free to roam as before and sometimes he had been forced to chasten his cock and put his lust aside until there had been a better time to satisfy it.

Yet somehow this was different. It was not only about him anymore - for once there was another person to consider. _A woman _– a woman who stayed with him, instead of disappearing as soon as their rutting was over.

And not just any woman. _Sansa Stark. _The little bird who had grown talons.

She had been sitting rigidly all day, holding her head up high, exchanging only a few necessary sentences with him. It had started to irritate Sandor. _Aye, of course it had been a mistake. No reason to be so high and mighty though. Dog only does as his master commands, and if the master orders improperly, is it the dog's fault?_

He shifted in the saddle a bit closer so he could be sure that Sansa felt the press of his thighs.

"Well, what is it to be?" he grunted.

Sansa almost jumped in surprise and half-turned her head. "What?"

"What shall I tell my cock? _Down boy?_ Do I have to find a campsite near a stream so I can sit in ice-cold water and cool my balls?"

Sansa turned to stare at the path ahead. Sandor hadn't truly expected her to respond and continued.

"Twice you have let me between your legs. Once mayhap an accident. Twice - what the fuck is that? Carelessness?" He could see her neck reddening and could imagine how her whole face must have turned pink. Sandor let her stew in her embarrassment, almost enjoying the situation.

For a long time she stayed quiet. Finally she muttered in a low voice. "It is complicated."

"The fuck it is. It's the simplest thing there is. But don't worry, _my lady._ I am at your service. I do as you bid. Day _and_ night," he added mischievously.

She didn't respond. Not then, nor during the rest of the ride.

* * *

The evening was also a quiet affair, both of them cocooned deep in their own thoughts. After Sandor secured the fire and prepared their bedrolls, Sansa slipped silently onto her own side, followed by Sandor falling heavily onto his own.

After everything was quiet and Sandor had started to fall into a deep well of unconsciousness, he felt a soft hand sliding down his ribs and slipping under his tunic.

"It is complicated," Sansa whispered as she pressed her body against him and guided his hand under her skirt and along her thigh, her lips brushing against his.

Sandor was a dog, raised to follow commands. He obeyed.


End file.
